mothers on the verge

So it's January, a new year and the Prince and I have returned to the topic most popular/unpopular in our life: Baby Due. Popular because we just can't seem to stop talking about it. Unpopular because we can't just seem to stop talking about it. I have reached the place where I firmly believe that raising The Rabbit as an ONLY is not a curse placed upon her head. There are plenty of studies that now show an only child as modeling behavior similar to the oldest child -- ie, fine. And being a mother who chooses to have just one doesn't make me feel like some heinous selfish monster despite the will of the (s)mothers. But I am also feeling like, 'Is this it?' And wondering if I am ready to surrender this part of my life for good. It's one thing to waiver back and forth -- both options remain. It's quite another to choose one and make the decision permanent. There's a great story in this month's Parenting magazine which I think articulates these fe...

The Rabbit and two other 4-year-old friends are sitting in princess dresses watching Strawberry Shortcake in what is a momentary break in the most chaotic tea party afternoon ever. In just 90 minutes they have managed to: 1. Have potty breaks once (yes, I am watching them...) 2. Argue twice over who got to wear the Tinkerbell shoes. (The shoes got a time out). 3. Eat 3 pink petit fours with butterflies on them. 4. Spill "tea" on the floor 4 times. 5. Get 5 minutes to play the piano. 6. Cry 6 times. 7. Make me get up from my desk 7 times to negotiate an argument. 8. Tell each other "You're not my friend" 8 times. 9. Give me 9 shots from the Rabbit's doctor kit. 10. Make me look at the clock 10 times and wonder where their mommies were. I have to say, I love that The Rabbit has her friends over. I just wish they could behave maturely and calmly. Is that asking too much from sugar addled, nap-deprived 4-year-olds? I think not.

All in one week I upgraded our computers at home (oh yes, me.) and became the proud owner of a sleek little iPod Shuffle. The last time I had a portable music player it was the size of a small purse and let me tell you, running with that was like carrying weights. Not bad for the exercise factor, but still -- not fun. I know this is going to sound like a crazy ad, but I have a stack of CDs, have my iTunes store open and I am psyched to hit the streets with the Gorillaz popping in my ear.

1. Alpha, who gave up smoking three years ago, went out tonight and bought a pack of pipe tobacco and rolling papers. Then he stood in the garden and smoked, shivering in the gale force winds, and making bashful faces at me through the window. I sat on the sofa shaking my head at him and tutting. The truth is that I am secretly gratified as this moment of weakness means Alpha can no longer hector me about my own addiction to the evil weed. Ha. 2. The decorators are in giving the flat a facelift. Last night I forced Alpha to take the perfectly fine but somewhat bland cream paint he had bought for the hallway back to the shop to exchange it for a taupe shade (I had been looking through interior design magazines all day and was feeling 'inspired'). The hallway now looks like a giant biscuit and at some point I will be forced to apologise, not to mention having to retract my assertion that: "I know all about interior design, in fact I have a natural talent for it, and I am tel...

At what point am I supposed to hire a housecleaner? Does everyone have one but me? I manage to wipe down the main gross areas of the house about every other day. But then I find dust bunnies, truthfully, that are bigger than my hand. I've never been one of those people comfortable having strangers (ie, someone other than me, The Rabbit or The Prince) in my home. Even when we had a babysitter/nanny I never got completely comfortable with her being around. And so the idea of someone touching my stuff every week to clean makes me feel edgy. (Yes, I am sure there are prescription drugs that can help me with this.) But then I walk into friends' homes. Counters are wiped down. One week of recycling is not sitting in plastic bags next to their front door. There are no empty toilet paper rolls sitting on the medicine cabinet. Beds are made. Their houses reek of confidence, like those moms who sigh dramatically on the playground and then complain they only made it to the gym 3 times thi...

I am about to reveal something not quite cool about me, but.... There is a limit to the amount of time I can sit on the floor with The Rabbit and play with her Little Ponies. And we're not talking one hour here. After about 8 minutes, my need to take deep breaths increases rapidly, and after about 12 minutes I start to fantasize about how great a cappucino would taste while sitting and watching some CNN. I never had any Little Ponies when I was a kid. Somehow they passed by my childhood just like Count Chocula cereal -- which I heard was a euphoric experience for many people. But these plastic ponies, with the jewels, and hair clips and brushes, with names like Sparkleworks and Love Wishes were surely invented on a pot binge. The Rabbit now counts 31 in her possession, including the series of fake ones her grandmother bestowed on her for Christmas. These are even worse -- even uglier, like someone thought the Little Ponies needed bulking up. They look like minature Clydesdale poni...

A roach, something so large it had to have been prehistoric, was crawling on The Rabbit's bed not just 10 minutes ago. If I type badly or makse some spelling, syntax or spelling errors in this post, too bad. I can barely stop shaking. To try and understand how physically big this thing was I was attempt to use type letters to show you: ccccccccccc ccccccccccc oooooooo ooooooooo ccccccccccccccccccccccc ccccccccccccccccccccccc kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr oooooooooooooooooooooo aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ccccccc...

So I discovered how serious my lack of computer skills were when I realized how late I was in upgrading to the new Blogger to even post. (Let's not even start on how lame I am for these looooong vacations from our blog...I don't think YLM is going to forgive me at this point.) But I have upgraded and I will attempt to list the reasons for my recent departure which will only firmly fasten in the minds of you, dear readers, how lame I am: 1. My bathroom exploded with a leak from the "refuse pipe" from our neighbor upstairs and we are now living with 1/4 of our bathroom wall missing, and our windows open as the walls dry out. And Wednesday is set to be 27 degrees. Farenheit. The plasterer made us an appointment thank goodness to fix out walls. For Feb 15th. Yes, February. 2. I got a skateboard (yes, you read right) and am trying to teach myself to ride it. Which means The Prince is riding it. And The Rabbit. And I look about as cool as I did when I tried to learn to snow...

January is a dreary month. The excitement (or anxiety, depending upon your circumstances and personal level of scrooge-ness) of Christmas is over. Your bank balance is in the red, which is possibly a good thing because there's nothing left in the shops except for the past season's fashion disasters (clue: it's in the sale, which means nobody wanted it when it was full price and with good reason). Your trousers are too tight from an excess of gluttony. Your skin is grey from lack of sunshine and months of central heating. And to top it all, the magazines are laying on the detox guilt at a time when all you want to eat is a comforting trough of rhubarb crumble and custard - the mere thought of a wheatgrass smoothie every morning followed by a bracing trot around the park makes me want to dive headfirst into the biscuit tin. Yes, I have the January blues. Roll on February, March, April, Summer...

The Small(er) One has been brainwashed. After a Christmas of being over-indulged by her adoring extended family, which basically translates to eating as much chocolate as she wants whenever she wants, and watching back-to-back Disney movies (Cinderella and Aristocrats on a 3:1 ratio) for a full ten days, the Small(er) One, all of two and a half years old, has decided that she is Cinderella. She insists on wearing a crown and a ballet skirt at all times - even over pyjama bottoms or jeans, and sneaked under dresses and nighties when the mean stepmother (me, apparently) tries to lay down the law. Before the Small(er) One deigns to leave the house she insists on being decked out with the entire contents of the dressing-up jewellery box. She also carries a handbag on the crook of her arm, just like the Queen. She will only answer to "Cinderella" and objects loudly when addressed by her given name. In addition to the Cinderella obsession, the Small(er) One has developed hair par...

1. I will learn to say "sorry" and mean it 2. I will get my ass out of bed in the morning without cursing and bitching 3. I will fold the laundry once it is dry rather than leaving it in a heap for a week 4. I will stop obsessing about my wrinkles; instead I will cleanse and moisturise properly, drink water instead of Diet Coke and learn to love the character my, um, 'laughter lines' give me 5. Ditto tummy flub; instead I will do sit-ups every morning, drink more water, hold myself upright instead of slumping and stop trying to pretend I am ever going to have the body of an eighteen-year-old again 6. I will stop flicking my cigarette butts into the garden (yeah, I know this should read 'I will ditch my unwholesome reliance on Marloboro Lights' but hey, one thing at a time) 7. I will make more of an effort with the other parents at Firstborn's school and I will stop trying to make Alpha go to all the kiddie parties on his own by pretending I have som...

Alpha, the kids and I are about to embark upon a no doubt torturous expedition to Normandy, where we are staying in the 'Christmas Castle' (as dubbed by Firstborn) with about 30m members of Alpha's clan. Wish me luck. We will either still be on the M25 come Christmas Day (today's headlines: 'Freezing Fog Causes Travel Chaos!) or the alternative scenario is that we will actually get there but I will have to go sit in a dark room for the rest of the holidays due to an overload of childish tantrums en route. We shall see. But to all of you, we wish you a very Merry Christmas and we'll be back before the New Year. xxx

Firstborn was Mary in the school nativity play this year. To say I was proud would be an understatement. How the maternal busom swelled with joy upon hearing of Firstborn's moment of glory! My mother has always claimed, practically from the very moment Firstborn emerged pink, wrinkly and outraged, that she was set for stardom. As Firstborn made her first wobbly steps and threw her first tantrum (of many), she was destined for RADA (none of that starlet and gratuitous nudity stuff for her first grandchild, it would be a glittering career treading the boards and rave reviews in the broadsheets at the very least). At last! Here was proof that my mother was right! Firstborn still of such tender years, and yet already her future career was unfolding... That is, until Firstborn's very sweet teacher took me to one side before class started one morning. She explained that she had cast Firstborn as Mary in order to boost her confidence - Firstborn, it seems, is very shy and reluctant to...

I admit it. I'm a vain woman. I have issues. I have neuroses. There are many unfortunate facets to my personality that I am too tired or busy or deluded or too plain lazy to try to fix. Plus, I've lived with them for thirty odd years and kind of got used them. If only Alpha Male could just accept, or even ignore, my less positive traits... it would make life much easier. Things Alpha Male would like to change about me: I have a confused relationship with the concept of time, especially when out shopping I obsess about work I think I'm right 98% of the time (see below) I will only say "I'm sorry" if I believe I was truly in the wrong (see above) I am quite selfish I hate mornings and dislike any prolonged human interaction until I have had my eyes open for at least 40 minutes I have an aversion to vacuuming, loading and unloading the dishwasher, changing bedlinen, cleaning shoes, mopping floors and dusting I sleep heavily and often don't hear the kids bello...

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up? Firstborn: (after a long pause) I want to be God. Me: (stifled mirth) Hmmmph. Maybe going to Catholic school wasn't such a good idea for Firstborn after all.

More from the Birthday Front: So as you know, I turned (bleep) last week on my birthday and had a surprise bigger than the fact my eyebrows appear to be graying. The Prince suggested I have a small party at our house that night and order some pizza and he would try and get home before it was over from work and grab a cake from the grocery. Surely you know me well enough now to know....I left many raging messages on my friend's voice mail and let him know what a negligent heinous man he was. My birthday came, we had pizza, he came home with a small bakery cake, and it left. Then he decided, "Hey. I'm a huge loser with a luscious wife. I need to invite a few people out for Saturday night and take her to some lame chain restaurant for her birthday." So he asked me to hire the babysitter. And told me not to dress up too much -- it wasn't that fancy of a place. Would you have divorced him yet? In the cab on the way to the restaurant (and we're late, by the way for ...

Well, another birthday hit last week - all I will say is that when asked how old I am I now answer: "I haven't decided yet." Lest anyone think that's an attempt to hide the fact I've headed over into the land of 40s, it is not. But I am truly trying to prepare myself for when that odometer ticks over. And yes, I don't have many more years to go. "Jeez," many of you will say. "What a lam-o MM is. Who CARES how old you are??" Uh, that would be narcissistic me. There are times when age is important. Getting a driver's license. Being able to marry someone without your parents permission. Buying a margarita (which I seriously need right now.) But I wish we just stopped counting. Because I can see over the hill (yes, pun intended) and I don't think it's going to be that pretty. I can smell ageism just ahead. And please, yes, it exists. So, I am going to stop counting. And given my penchant for forgetting people's names, I am hopin...

I was sent this recently and it made me chuckle. Enjoy. Are you ready for children? Why didn't anybody warn us? Follow these simple tests before you decide to have children... Test 1 Women: To prepare for maternity, put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front. Leave it there for 9 months. After 9 months remove 10% of the beans. Men: To prepare for paternity, go to local chemist, tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself. Then go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office. Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time. Test 2 Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline, lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild. Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and overall behaviour. Enjoy it. It will be the ...

Well, I have heard from some of you -- and from YLM -- that I have been lame in not writing for nearly a month. And I agree. All I can tell you is that, well, I basically did one of my disappearing acts which when I was in my 20s would cause me to unplug my phone and not return calls for a week. My friends would think something had happened to me, and I would sit in my apartment and try to de-stress. I did the equivalent, except that when you're married, and you have a child and full-time work that it's almost impossible to do that. But clearly I managed to avoid here. Can't say that I have shed my stress coat, but I promise to at least and write more often. Nothing's lamer than a blogger who doesn't blog. I think I almost lost my membership.

Going out is something I don't do well anymore. I don't mean just venturing out of the house -I can manage that quite well if it's a jaunt to work, the school run or the shops - it's the proper going-out-in-the-evening-necessitating-dressing-up-a-bit-and-expecting-to-have-fun sort of going out I have a problem with. You know, the sort of thing you did a number of nights a week B.C. (Before Children) without any apparent difficulty. In those days staying in was something you had to do from time to time out of medical necessity and to avoid bankrupcy. Now staying in is the status quo and going out is fraught with issues. The first thing is that I'm too damned tired/ lazy to haul my behind off the sofa most evenings. I like the coziness of staying in with a movie and Alpha Male primed to cook dinner. I like the fact that the sofa has a dent in it that almost exactly matches the shape of my rear. I like being able to wear my nastiest clothes and not care (after all Alph...